


The case of the missing traveller

by Meri_Maat



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Convalescence, Kidnapping, POV Watson, late victorian era, mostly canon-compliant, seaside holiday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25557076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meri_Maat/pseuds/Meri_Maat
Summary: When Watson is dispatched to recover from stressful months of medical practise, he soon finds himself in the midst of another mystery which also alerts his friend Sherlock Holmes. In the quiet low season of Brighton, a fellow traveller goes missing under suspicious circumstances. Everything points to tragedy. But there might just be more to the case than meets the eye...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uncompleted, unbeta-ed, not a native speaker. Will be addings tags as the story progresses.

The year 1896 began as any year does when the winter is sufficiently cold: The freezing winds and snow brought illness with them, making the people of London suffer greatly during those months. It was this that kept me from Holmes’ side for much of the time. Hence, come March, I could not have seen the man more than twice since Christmas. It had, in fact, been quite a while since I last called on him.

I had been trying to keep up with the demands of a busy practise and subsequently found myself utterly drained when Spring finally came. It seems that I had not heeded my own admonishments that were most often directed at Holmes. For it is often that he needs reminding of his body’s needs when he finds himself on the scent of one criminal or another. Having forsaken both regular meals and sleep, my health had suffered. The old war wound did its part in keeping me inside my flat, miserably draped in a slew of blankets. Such was my state when Holmes called on me. He explained later that he had been worried at the lack of communications.

“Why, dear Watson!” he ejaculated when he was shown into my sitting room by the maid. “You look a terrible fright.” He was clearly agitated and had yet to take his gloves off. I have to admit that I was hardly fit to be in polite company. Of course, Holmes rarely ever is polite. The concern he showed – which he expressed in our following conversation – was, however, genuine. I don’t mind putting to paper that I often found myself wondering at the marvel of having Holmes as a true friend and comrade, the odd pair that we make. But I digress.

I have to admit that I found myself barely able to answer Holmes’ prodding, huddling inside my blanket for warmth. How strange that he was the person to remind me – and sternly so! – to take better care of my own health. And thus, without considering my objections, I was dispatched to the shores of Brighton; the sea air is a remedy that I myself had prescribed more than once in my years of practise.  


The forced holiday promised to be a quiet one, a chance to replenish my strength.


	2. Chapter 2

Upon arrival, I was still too weak to attempt an outing on the famous promenade. Indeed, it was only after three days of convalescence that I noticed the matter of the outstanding bills. With some alarm, I might add. Holmes had dropped me into a lavish hotel, more suited for the richer clients he sometimes takes on. However, upon inquiry, I found out that all expenses had already been covered by my friend. This was not an unusual occurrence for Holmes was a generous man, however much he denied it when pressed on the matter. I know for a fact that he has financed schooling for his gang of Irregulars.

Having been assured in this fashion, I took to the buffet and the hotel’s drawing room. After just one night of sleep more, I was finally able to venture out. Still shaken from the winter’s work and the bleak streets of London, I found myself marvelling at the famous aquarium. When the mood struck me, I even dined near one of the piers where I could see the ships sailing back into harbour. Indeed, the only thing missing was the ever stimulating company of my friend Sherlock Holmes who had fled the tranquil low season as soon as I was installed in my room. I could even have sworn that I heard him muttering about “dreary boredom”. Exactly this quiet was what helped me recover as quickly as I did, I am sure of it. And I had, as so often before and so often since, my companion and friend to thank for all the amenities.

Soon enough, I found myself seeking the company of my fellow lodgers. I took delight in amiably conversing with them in the hotel’s morning room. They were no match for Holmes’ wit but I struck up a friendship with a fellow army man who could not have been more than four years my junior. It was such that we often sought each others’ company. In the evenings, over a glass of liqueur, we could reminisce about our years of duty. Jones, I thought to myself, had been much luckier in his endeavours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be writing a lot of short chapters and hopefully will finish just one story on here...


	3. Chapter 3

Colonel Samuel Jones was, by all accounts, charming company; his years of service made him an interesting conversationalist and he expressed no little admiration for my friend’s feats over the years. A solitary man by chance, it was my conviction that he would not remain so indefinitely. One cannot underestimate the romantic pull of a handsome man in uniform (or so I came to believe). A number of lady travellers, apparently all cousins, had arrived a fortnight prior and were due to leave tomorrow. With departure looming over them, one of them interrupted our convivial dinner and boldly handed him her calling card. I could not help but chuckle silently while I took my leave with an excuse I cannot remember.

In any case, this seemed to be a fortunate match and one the girl’s relatives approved of wholeheartedly. I heard them whispering when I passed and noticed them looking in on the couple inconspicuously. That evening, I had no other plans and as much as Holmes has been accused of being a busy body: So was I, in equal measure. Hence, I joined them and they had soon enough given me all the details. The girl’s name was Grace Clark and her family consisted of merchants and traders. She herself had been born on an island somewhere in the tropics but returned to England for schooling where she was staying with family. 

Among the gossip and laughter, the evening ended just after 9 p.m. I might have recovered some of my strength but I still needed too much sleep and rest. So I left the girls – Grace had, at this point joined them again and was inconspicuously trying to gather some knowledge on the colonel. It was all quite droll and I enjoyed the outing immensely. I met the object of conversation on the way to my room and nodded in greeting. He also seemed to be in high spirits; no one could have predicted the mysterious turn this holiday would take by the next morning.


	4. Chapter 4

I woke to a commotion outside. Quickly stepping into my clothes and shoes, I hurried to inquire if medical help was needed. The Clarks were all out on the lawn, in equal measure supporting and holding back Grace Clark as she stood wailing at the sea. Out on the waves, one could make out a rowing boat, for all appearances empty. It took all of our strength to hold Miss Clark back from jumping into the still cold sea.  
“He was on that boat,” she wailed, straining against our arms. Whatever sense she had – it had left her. Fortunately, she was soon enough worn down from the emotional turmoil and a matronly aunt gently guided her to her room. I promised to look in on her later and recommended rest and quiet for the time being. 

We others – the ones left on the lawn – looked at each other. I broke the silence first and hoped that my voice conveyed the concern I felt for the young lady. Other guests had arrived as well but soon enough dispersed. “What happened?” I asked, hoping that my assumptions would prove (as they so often do) false. Alas, that hope was not to last. One of the cousins – a woman of some twenty years by the name of Emily Clark – dabbed at her neck and nose with her neckerchief and beckoned me to follow her to a bench some distance from any prying ears.

“I understand your work with Mr. Holmes requires great secrecy at times,” she began and studied my features for a moment. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she continued. “The Colonel and my cousin have, as I understand it, arranged a clandestine meeting for this morning. Therefore, I need not tell you that this matter is a sensitive one. In short, he did not appear at the appointed hour and, my cousin, has now come to believe him lost at sea.” She quirked an eyebrow in the direction of the rowing boat which was currently being pulled into harbour. “She believes that he was in that boat and nothing we say can convince her otherwise.”

I nodded slowly and was about to reply when a shout alerted us to the boat’s arrival at shore. “There’s a picnic basket,” one of the men exclaimed. The both of us cautiously drew nearer and peeked at the object in question. Indeed, it was a wicker basket filled with the finest pattiseries the town baker had on offer. Miss Emily Clark pressed a gloved hand to her lips and for a moment I feared she would faint. “It is his,” was all she had to say. The colonel’s basket, this fact further assured by the monogrammed serviette tucked inside. 

I advised Miss Clark to keep this from her sensitive relative, lest she incur more nervous shock. She set off to the hotel determinedly. As for myself, I went in search of the man. When by mid-day I had not found a single trace and could not produce a single person who had seen him since the night before, I was beginning to fear for him. What else was I to do but wire my friend Sherlock Holmes for advice concerning this most curious matter?


	5. Chapter 5

Agonizing was the one word I would deem fit for the time I was waiting for Holmes. His answer had been as brief as it was uninformative: WILL COME AT ONCE – KEEP BOAT AS IS – HOLMES 

As instructed, we kept the rowing boat where it was first pulled ashore and touched nothing. A page was sent down from the hotel to stand guard. I had left the scene to attend the unfortunate Miss Clark who was securely put up inside her room; the departure of the family was postponed for the foreseeable future. I recommended rest and quiet once again and left to wait for Holmes as well as further developments. 

Even the police had been called by a fast-thinking receptionist. A young constable was eagerly awaiting my return. I might confidently say that I had some experience with the sort of nervous hero-worship my colleague Sherlock Holmes elicits almost everywhere he goes. My stories, of course, had their part in this (I myself was not immune to his wit and brilliance!). Hence, I quite rightly diagnosed the young man of the Brighton police department as one of these followers of my stories.

“Hullo!”, he called out to me and grasped my hand firmly in his. “My name is Jacob Wilson.” I made to introduce myself while he kept shaking my hand with fervour. I finally managed to extract my fingers from his grip and we made our way towards the promenade. There, I could just barely make out a tall, thin figure crouching in the sand apparently engrossed in the study of some pebbles. Holmes – for it was surely he – was clad in a long coat and wearing his travelling cap.

Constable Wilson kept the conversation flowing while we walked. Ever so often, he would inquire after one point or the other that I had left out of my final publications. Suddenly he thrust a well-worn copy last month’s “Strand” magazine in my hands. “I am a great admirer of yours,” he confessed to me. “I was wondering, just maybe… would you perhaps sign this copy - ?” Obligingly, I scrawled my name next to the title of my story.

At this point, Sherlock Holmes joined us. He briefly introduced himself, as did Wilson and the three of us strolled to the boat that now, at approximately mid-day, was attracting some attention from the passers-by. I was a bit taken aback that the constable kept his conversation with me flowing, almost ignoring Holmes to the point of being rude. Still, I assume shyness can be expected when meeting one’s hero for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is a plot.
> 
> I greatly enjoyed listening to Itzhak Perlman (mostly his duets with Pinchas Zukerman) while writing, so if you need any accompanying music for this 'fic: There you have it.


	6. Chapter 6

“Aha!” Holmes exclaimed when he bent over the basket. He gingerly picked up the very serviette that had assured us of the colonel’s identity earlier. “This is most curious, most curious,” he said and looked sharply at me. I could only shake my head. His thought processes were as far removed as they ever were from my own. 

“As ever: You see but you do not observe,” Holmes proclaimed, and I knew better than to be offended at this barb. Wilson, however, made to speak, and I gestured to placate his misplaced indignity for my person. My friend continued, “This serviette has certainly not been in use. See the tag from the laundry here, in the back? It still is firmly affixed with a pin.” We bent over and it was so. “Surely, upon delivery at Jones’ room, it would have been removed by the maid. Hence, we can conclude, that this was taken directly from the hands of the laundress.” He hummed as he always did when he was satisfied with his conclusions.

“And,” I interjected “Jones would not have sent his laundry out. The hotel has its own service in the basement. It is offered free of charge to guests.” This fact, I knew all to well for I had called upon their help often when I was still feverish and my clothes often soaked with sweat. Holmes glanced sharply at me, no doubt deducing from my words the reason for my knowledge of the hotel’s inner workings. 

“Thus, it is from there that this napkin came. Most curious, indeed.” He straightened up and took my hand to help me stand in turn. “I have taken the liberty to examine the beach earlier. It only remains to speak to the young lady you mentioned in your telegram.” “Holmes!”, I protested. “She is ill. I really must insist you do not disturb Miss Clark unduly.” “Then,” he conceded, “it may help to at least speak to her cousin whom you have heralded such a sensible woman.” 

I could say nothing against this proposal and we returned to the hotel. At the door, Wilson was handed a message from his superior officer and departed for the station. He promised to come back later and I was surprised that he explicitly asked for my company in the evening – “Maybe a glass at the bar?”. Holmes laughed in the strangely silent way he usually did when some thought or other greatly amused him. I arched my eyebrows at him, the question obvious. “Why, Watson!”, he gasped finally, “You have an admirer of your own craft!”


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes went to talk to Miss Emily Clark, Cousin of the unfortunate Miss Grace Clark. I followed as always. He bent ever so slightly in greeting her and I was relieved that he displayed some of his charm in front of the young woman. It turned out that she and Grace Clark were rather closer than cousins usually are: Their fathers were identical twins and so it was Miss Emily’s family home where her cousin had grown up. It was no wonder then that their formidable and somewhat forward personalities should match each other.

Holmes had corralled all three of us into chairs near the windows overlooking the promenade. Outside, the veranda was populated by guests moving about. He listened to Miss Clark’s account of her relationship to the other Miss Clark attentively and had folded his hands under his chin. His lean frame was somewhat dwarfed by the red chintz chairs and heavy velvet drapes as he leaned back and closed his eyes in concentration.

I had my ever so familiar book out and was taking notes while Holmes approached the crux of the matter. “Miss Clark, it is evident that you are a close confidant of your cousin, maybe because of your shared skill in needlework, maybe because of your growing up together: Pray tell, what do you know of her relationship to colonel Jones?” The young woman did not answer.

“It is hard to believe,” Holmes continued, “that a relationship as brief as a meeting in seaside town would throw a sensible young woman such as your cousin, by all accounts including Watson’s, into such turmoil. Or, indeed, compel her to willingly accept a covert meeting alone with some stranger.” He glanced at Miss Clark who had noticeably paled. Still, she held her head high and motioned Holmes to continue. “Rather, I feel, the family’s approval is indicative of a prior understanding, is it not? Surely, they would not let their charge behave quite so freely in front of a young man they did not know. Adding the fact that they were, until this morning, not concerned with any scandal leads me to believe that Miss Clark knows the colonel rather better than was communicated.”

“You are right,” Emily Clark quietly acquiesced. “Young Master Jones – I have known him under that name for almost all his life and will continue to call him that – was the son of our neighbours. Ever since he and Grace were young, they were the best of friends. And later, I suppose, talk of marriage was the natural thing.” She wrung her hands, and, for the first time, she looked truly distressed. “Even so, when the household is suspected to be one of criminals – they had to split up. His father had – unjustly – been accused of thievery and smuggling and Samuel Jones joined the army to escape the shame. It was just half a year ago that the charges were proven to have been fabricated. Imagine our delight when we met Master Jones again, here of all places! They seemed happy enough to have met each other again. All of us were happy for the both of them.” A wistful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “All they were talking about was how to proceed, how to contact uncle – Grace’s father – “ She fell silent again and I tried to console her and gently patted her hand. 

“Thank you,” Holmes said in his usual detached manner. I could still tell that he was combining the facts in his head even as he was bowing out Miss Clark. His eyes assumed the typical far-away look of introspection, turning them icy grey. He returned to his place by the window and continued to look out of it. He was watching a couple of elderly matrons in dark coats, and then abruptly turned to face me. “I trust all is well with you, Watson?” I nodded, not wanting to dwell on the reason for my stay.

“But Holmes, how did you know about them both doing needlework?”, I inquired instead of him. “Ah, a minor point of interest,” he conceded. “I have noticed the most distinctive application of knot stitches in the satin stitch of Jones’ serviette. The same is present in Miss Emily Clark’s handbag decoration – evidently done by the same hand and a skilled one at that. Taking into account how fast Miss Clark had recognized the stitching, the logical conclusion was that it was her cousin’s handiwork. Thus further aiding my point of Jones’ and Miss Grace Clark’s long standing association.” He paused. “But how did you deduce the shared interest?” I supplied (for he appreciated an involved partner in conversations). “Ah, yes. I found the same pattern again on Miss Emily Clark’s collar – have you observed how it is worked in two parts? Only one of those has been done by the cousin’s hand. The other one has surely been done at the same time, the floral motif is the same after all. But it offers us a very distinctive, albeit similarly skilled hand. From there, it was easy to infer that Miss Clark should have adorned her garment with the help of her cousin.”

“Marvellous,” I exclaimed after this feat of reasoning. His eyes twinkled for a moment – praise was something Holmes always lapped up as a cat would do with milk. Holmes' good mood assured me further that he was truly on the scent of the mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edit as I write, there's no fixed schedule. Longer this time - dialogue takes up a lot of space.


	8. Chapter 8

I returned to the West Wing to refresh myself in my room while Holmes – energetic as he can be – decided to venture into town and help police with their inquiries. I trudged up the stairs where I had last seen Jones, and was in deep contemplation over the afternoon’s revelations. There was no one else in sight. That was just my luck again, I would have surely been very embarrassed should anyone have seen the tumble I took down the stairs. Apparently, the carpet had come loose on one of the stairs, and I, lost in a brown study, had not noticed it. I promptly righted the runner and tucked it into its proper place.

Once I had, safely this time, arrived at my room, I loosened my collar and fell into the armchair overlooking the entrance area of the hotel. I had intended to rest for just a bit but I must have fallen asleep. It was six in the afternoon when I awoke to someone knocking at my door.

It was Holmes. I opened the door further to let him into the room. He was almost bouncing in place and pure energy was emanating off him. I could see that he had not been to a room yet, he was still clad in his travelling coat, and, at present, pulling on his gloves.

“What a day!” His eager expression betrayed his excitement. “But I say! Watson, what happened?” He was pointedly looking at my leg which I had fallen on earlier. I grimaced. It had proven futile to hide my earlier misstep (in every sense of the word). Holmes led me to my chair - which was entirely unwarranted - and took a seat across from me. He fixed his gaze on me. “A minor stumble on the stairs,” I conceded. “The carpet had come unstuck.” At that, Holmes sprang up as if bitten. In a flash, he was out of my room, leaving the door open. Outside, I could hear him going about, muttering and tapping his fingers on the railing.

This went on for at least a few minutes, but I was still too tired from my earlier lie-down. Intermittently, I could hear rustling as if he was moving about heavy cloth. The runner, I thought. Something in the brief explanation of my mishap had given him a clue. Just when I was about to call out if he needed my help he returned. His cheeks were flushed. “We shall return to this,” he proclaimed loftily. “But we do still have an appointment with your friend from the police force.”


	9. Chapter 9

Not surprisingly, constable Wilson had a great number of questions regarding the old cases as he had only ever read the published accounts in the Strand. It is no great secret that I specifically chose only a small number of our dealings to be put forward to an eager audience. Wilson admitted sheepishly to spending his first wages on an edition of the Strand in which I had published the _The adventure of the Red-Headed League_. 

“It was riveting,” he addressed me. Indeed, he had not even glanced twice at Sherlock Holmes who was watching the scene unfold with no small amusement. “I greatly admired the way you described how you managed to subdue the fiend in the end…!” He gestured with both hands, his eyes bright from excitement. I felt vaguely uneasy to be the target of such exalted praise for once. Holmes was gently sipping on his mixed drink and taking in the room while listening. We were in the cocktail lounge of the hotel which is conveniently located near the tea and dining rooms on the ground floor. 

“Thank you,” I finally managed to respond and turned to Holmes. “However, there still is the case of Jones who has not been seen for almost an entire day now.” Now, Wilson also shifted in his seat to look at Holmes expectantly. “Yes, I suppose,” he conceded. “We, that is my Sergeant as well, have been conducting a search of the town and distributing a description of Mr. Jones with the local shops. I am quite sure that it will all come to nothing and that our man will appear safe and hale soon enough.” Holmes lowered his gaze to his glass and responded after a thoughtful silence. “And yet this case provides a number of singular points of interest – and danger.” – “Holmes!” I exclaimed. This was news to me.

“Yes, danger,” he declared calmly. “I have observed distinctive fresh scruff marks on the staircase where a new carpet has also been laid. Those cannot be explained apart from there having been a fight. I have been talking earlier to hotel staff and they described last night as quiet. Hence, it is quite probable from this and other details I ascertained in town that Mr. Jones has been abducted.”

“Abducted!” Wilson paled. Holmes nodded gravely. “Indeed, abducted. Unfortunately, we will need to leave Mr. Jones with his captors for a while longer. I trust your discretion in this matter.” He directed his last words at Wilson who held Holmes’ gaze steadily. It was clear that my friend had already devised a plan, but he would not share it with Wilson or me. “There is still a matter I have not been able to see to,” he responded to our questions. Soon enough, Wilson steered the conversation back to the adventures and stories I had published. When around 10 p.m. I had emptied my glass again; I made to stand and leave for my room.

Wilson accompanied me to the door of the foyer where he would depart for his own home. He pressed a pack of papers in my hands. “I – well – you see, I wanted to try my own hand… your opinion, Dr. Watson –,“ he faltered. I smiled at him. “I will read it, constable.” I looked over some of the pages; the young constable had apparently written a set of his own detective stories. Wilson’s shoulders sagged in relief and he all but fled into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do some research before putting out chapters; however, recipes are notoriously hard to find and then to date them (and to find the years they were popular)...
> 
> The hotel occasionally borrows very loosely from both the Metropole and The Grand.
> 
> I take the ACD approach to publishing once I have basically said what I set out to with bare-bones checking. Sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

“Watson! Watson!” Holmes was banging on my door. I had gone to bed hours ago. The clock read as 3 in the morning. “Watson!” Holmes was insistent. “Get up, quickly!” I did as I was told and shuffled about for a minute until I was nearly respectably dressed. Only then did it occur to me to open the door. I did and Holmes rushed in, hair in disarray and his clothes thrown on haphazardly. “Watson!” he repeated. “Watson, there is a burglar on the loose. Quickly now! We might still catch him!”

His eyes shone in the lamplight and he had brought the poker from his room. “Best bring yours as well”, he stated grimly. “There is a distinct element of danger.” I picked up the poker from beside the fireplace and followed Holmes to the hallway. “Hush now. We must follow at a distance.” He extinguished the light he was carrying and set it down beside the door to my room. Taking care to guide me past the stairs – his vision was, even at night, as cat-like as the entire man was in his habits –, we followed the corridor. I started when I realized that we were closing in on colonel Jones’ room. 

Holmes raised his hand to my upper arm to stop me from approaching further. My breath felt hot in my throat, my heart was beating as fast as it ever does. Only the softest noises from the room assured us that there was anyone else awake. There was the unmistakable rustle of the bedclothes. A frustrated exhale through the nose. Then, a drawer opening – the nightstand or the dresser. 

A light shone from underneath the door and Holmes pulled me further into the shadows. I immediately became more alert. When the door finally creaked open and a figure emerged, Holmes held me back. I gripped the poker in my hand tighter and pressed my lips firmly together. The person carefully locked the room with its key and crept along the passage. Holmes and I waited breathlessly until they had rounded a corner. Only then was it possible to pursue anyone at a distance, as my friend had obviously planned.

We were able to follow the figure from the hotel until we reached a desolate beach hut. It seemed to have been abandoned some time ago. The waves were crashing loudly on the shore. We hid carefully behind a piece of driftwood, crouching close to the ground and ever aware of every sound. The person turned around as if to see that they had not been followed. In this light, it was impossible to glean any facial features or even stature. All I could say is that the person we were following was wearing a long cape. 

They turned the key to the hut. Immediately, Holmes sprang up and I followed him, our improvised weapons brandished. “Stop there!” Holmes yelled when we were close enough. A startled yelp revealed the man we had been pursuing. He immediately threw his hands up and Holmes was able to detain him easily.

I heard a low groan. Taking the lamp off the middle-aged man we had been following, I entered the hut. Another man was lying there in a threadbare cot, obviously weak from exhaustion. I put down the lamp onto the windowsill and took his pulse at the wrist. The man’s heart was beating strong enough, I noticed with relief. Only then did I think to look at his face. I started with surprise: It was Colonel Samuel Jones!


	11. Chapter 11

I immediately dropped on my knees next to Jones and tried to rouse him. Holmes, meanwhile, was occupied by tying up the other man who I could not help but feel I had seen before. When he had secured the man, he stood, somewhat aloof, next to me and surveyed the room. I called out Jones’ name again and shook him gently by his shoulders, mindful of possible injury. 

With a low sound from the back of his throat, he opened his eyes. I carefully shone a light into his eyes, noting with relief that his pupils were constricting normally. “What happened?” he croaked. “Watson?” He struggled and only then did I notice the strong ropes binding down his hands and feet. I called out to Holmes who quickly cut the restraints with his pocket-knife. My friend then made for the door, taking his own lamp with and turning it up to full light.

Meanwhile, I patted my cloak for the small bottle of brandy I had taken with me for emergencies. Helping Jones up ever so slightly, I held the bottle to his chapped lips. There was no visible injury and no sign of head trauma, but he was clearly malnourished and weak. “Are you injured?” I asked and, fortunately, he shook his head. When some colour had returned to his cheeks, I helped him stand. In my opinion, it was paramount to get Jones back to a warm room where he could gather some strength and where an equally warm meal might be delivered. 

“Ho! Here!” I suddenly heard Holmes shout. He was standing a few paces away from the door and waving his lamp above his head. It was no small wonder that he did not set his clothes on fire from spilling oil. “Here!” he repeated.

I could make out figures among the dunes who were also carrying lamps. Our prisoner remained bound but desperately tried to roll away. Holmes stopped him with a single movement of his right arm while I kept tending to my patient. The figures were still drawing closer and it became clear that it had been them whom Holmes had been signalling to.

Jones was swaying on his feet and I carefully wrapped him in my own shawl. “Holmes,” I urged. “Holmes, we need to get the Colonel back to the hotel, a warm room, a meal…” I stopped. Finally, I had recognized the first person approaching across the beach. It was Wilson. I looked at Holmes questioningly and he raised his hands. “I wired him earlier,” he said by way of explanation. “Time was of the essence – but I felt supporting troops might not be amiss.”

By the time he finished speaking, Wilson, a group of local policemen in tow, had almost reached us. “Mr. Holmes! Doctor!” he exclaimed and faltered when his eyes had adjusted to the light. He and Holmes exchanged a few words, curt and informative but not unfriendly. I tried to listen, but my focus was on the Colonel. When the situation had been explained to Wilson’s satisfaction, he gave orders to take our prisoner to the station.

He then turned to us. “It will please you,” he said with a wry smile. “That we have another hansom parked just behind the dunes to take you back.” I was immensely thankful for his consideration and even Holmes thanked him profusely. I imagine, even he with his iron condition had not been looking forward to transporting Jones back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on holiday, hence the delay. This is obviously a bit of a filler chapter. If I were to make an educated guess, I'd say that I have about three more chapters to go until I finish this story.


	12. Chapter 12

When I made to follow the men, Holmes held me back with his hand on my shoulder. Several policemen had joined us, seemingly waiting for something a few yards from where we were standing. “Our task here is not yet finished, friend Watson”, he said and I waited, somewhat impatiently, for an explanation. “It is,” he continued, “a fact that I have a somewhat better gift for observation than most of our fellow countrymen. In actuality, I did recognize the villain we trudged upon earlier. I am also quite certain that you would have done the same – had he been wearing a dress.” “Holmes!” I cried immediately, scandalized. He laughed at my outrage and I was beginning to wonder if he had over-indulged in one of his vices. More stable men have fallen prey to insanity from drugs such as he is wont to use.

“Do not worry, good Doctor,” he said. As ever, he had managed to read my thoughts. “I simply meant to convey that I have seen both the man and his boots earlier on the promenade.” He turned his head to look at me. “You have as well. Only you did not recognize him as he was then – as I said – dressed as a woman. Do you remember the two matrons who kept walking up and down beside the hotel?” I nodded and found myself dumbstruck. Of course, he had been observing and deducing earlier, his brain thriving on the thrill of the chase.

“Since we only managed to find one of them here, it is reasonable to assume that there is a second man, no?” “Yes, I suppose so,” I conceded. “Are we then waiting for this unknown second party?” Holmes only nodded and motioned for me and the constabulary to duck behind the dunes. It was just as well because the sun was already starting to rise and fill the beach with light. 

Holmes kept his eyes trained on the path we had taken earlier and by now I could make out that it was a well-trodden trail which dissected the sharp-edged weeds on both sides. We could hear soft footsteps before we saw anything. Holmes held up his hand and we waited, holding our breath. 

Finally, an indistinct figure came into view. It was another man, shorter but distinctly muscled. His long coat was muddied in places and he was wearing a cap. Over his left shoulder, he had slung a shovel. When the sun hit his face, his features became suddenly visible. He had pale, freckled skin and his nose seemed to have been broken at least once. 

In a flash, Holmes was upon him, beating the shovel out of his hands. His opponent immediately reacted and struck Holmes heavy on the head. I was behind him at once, shouldering my stumbling friend out of the way. The man we had been waiting for growled and I had almost no time to react when he pulled a revolver from his belt. I dived for his legs, hearing Holmes shout behind me. With a bang, his weapon went off just as I tackled him to the ground. A crash indicated that his back had hit a stone but I could not find it in me to be worried by it too much. I quickly searched his pockets and came away with another pistol and two knives. 

He groaned weakly and I quickly assessed his condition – no apparent wounds but for a small abrasion on his forearm, no broken bones. He would live, I concluded. My probing was, however, cut short by someone leading me away from the man. I observed two of the constables take hold of the man’s arms and lead him away. My head felt heavy from the commotion and I let myself fall into the sand, dignity the last thing on my mind.

“Watson,” came the insistent voice of my friend through the fog in my head, “Watson, are you hurt?” I was not. Placing a hand upon Holmes’ arm I reassured him firmly that there was nothing amiss with me. And, lightheaded from exhaustion and sleeplessness, we dissolved into fits of laughter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have lost "the voice" I associate with ACD and will, hopefully, find it again. Until then... this.


	13. Chapter 13

Alas, the sand was doing none of us any favours, and having spent the night away from my temporary bedstead was adding to the bone-deep tiredness I could feel myself sinking into. Holmes held out his hand – a practical man if ever there was one – and helped me stand. If I was leaning just a bit more than usual on his side, he made no comment of it. Soon enough, we found ourselves bundled into a carriage waiting just out of sight. The ride to the hotel was near enough silent as even Holmes can, should the occasion arise, show some human weakness. Not to put too fine a point on it: He was snoring for almost all of the journey.

I, however, found myself thinking about the mystery of the two men we had just captured. What sinister business had led to Jones’ abduction? How had the young man come to be treated such? My thoughts wandered, and I recalled the conversation with Emily Clark – could there have been more to the claims of deviancy than I had previously assumed? 

So deep in reverie was I that I hardly noticed the carriage pulling up at the broad, column sided entrance. Holmes, too, was awake again, and his eyes took in my still dishevelled appearance. He smiled briefly at me when I opened my mouth to speak. “All in good time, Watson,” he admonished. “All in good time. The matter can wait until after some refreshments and rest.”

One of the hotel’s valets had the presence of mind to open the doors for us. The mantlepiece in the reception area showed me that it was barely past 6 in the a.m. I certainly felt the night’s disrupted sleep catching up with me and nodded curtly to the receptionist before alighting the stairs to the win my room was located in.

I certainly felt much better once I had managed to secure both two hours of uninterrupted sleep and then a hearty breakfast in the morning-room. Cook’s biscuits were certainly on par with the ones produced by the esteemed Mrs. Hudson. I had just started on my second cup of coffee when Holmes entered the room, and shortly afterward, he occupied the seat across mine.

His eyes twinkled, and he seemed to be possessed of an exceptionally good mood. After having ordered some nourishments himself – and helping himself to a few bites of my own cold meats, I might add! – he picked up the Times and started reading. I tried to no avail to catch his attention, but his focus remained on the personal advertisements.

When his food finally arrived, he put the newspaper away and poured himself a cup of tea. Only after the first three sips did he speak. I was, at this point, rightfully indignant at this display of his usual rude behaviour. It must have shown plainly on my face. “Well, good morning to you, too,” he harumphed and laughed at my pained expression. “I figure, I have kept you waiting for long enough,” he stated in a conciliatory tone and continued. “The plot, as you writers say, thickens. I am afraid, however, the story is not mine to tell. You have remarked frequently on my knack for theatrics – not unjustly! Young Jones is currently resting up under the watchful eye of Miss Clark and a number of chaperones. I dare say, those will probably consist of all the ladies that could fit into the room. Waiting another hour for him will not kill you, friend Watson.” My responding groan of frustration just made him bark out another laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough. I never know how to end these things.


End file.
